Buried for Pleasure (6 page)

‘What is on them?'

‘Well, your photograph, of course,' Captain Watkyn replied dreamily. ‘And underneath that they say: “Vote for Fen and a Brave New World”.'

‘I scarcely think – –'

‘Now, I know what you're going to say.' Captain Watkyn raised one finger monitorily. ‘I know just exactly what you're going to say. You're going to say that's exaggerated, and I agree; I'm with you entirely, make no mistake about that. But we've got to face it, old boy: these elections are all a lot of hocus-pocus from beginning to end. It's what people expect. It's what people want. And you won't get into Parliament by saying: “Vote for Fen and a Slightly Better World if you're Lucky”.'

‘Well, no, I suppose not. . . . All right, then. What about the leaflets?'

‘I have some here.' Captain Watkyn groped in his pocket and produced a handful of printed matter, which he passed to Fen. ‘
The Candidate Who Will Look After
Your
Interests
' it said on the outside.

Fen studied it bemusedly, while Captain Watkyn went off to get another round of drinks.

‘You'll like that, I know,' Captain Watkyn said complacently on his return. ‘It's one of the best things in its line I've ever done.'

‘But all this . . . it isn't what I wrote to you.'

‘Well, no, not
exactly
what you wrote to me,' Captain Watkyn admitted. ‘But you see, old boy, it's no use trying to stray away from the usual Independent line: you'll get nowhere if you do.'

‘But what
is
the usual Independent line?'

‘Just Judging Every Issue on its Own Merits: Freedom from the Party Caucus: that sort ofthing.'

‘Oh. But look here: this says I advocate the abolition of capital punishment, and really, you know, I'm not at all sure that I do.'

‘My dear sir, it doesn't matter whether you do or not,' said Captain Watkyn with candour. ‘You must rid yourself of the idea that you have to try and implement any of these promises once you're actually elected. The thing is to get votes, and with an Independent candidate you have to fill up election pamphlets with non-Party issues like capital punishment, because the only thing you say about major issues is that everything will be Judged on its Own Merits.'

‘I see. Then when I make speeches I have to stick to these non-Party things?'

‘No, no,' said Captain Watkyn patiently, ‘you mustn't on any account do that. You must talk a
great deal
about the major issues, but you must keep to pious aspirations, mainly.' An idea occurred to him. ‘Let's have a test. Imagine I'm a heckler. I say: “What about exports, eh? What about exports?” And your reply is – –'

Fen considered for a moment and then said:

‘Ah, I'm glad you asked that question, my friend, because it deals with one of the most important problems facing this country today – a problem, I should add, which can be only imperfectly solved by any of the rigid, prejudiced Party policies.

‘“What about exports?” you say. And I reply: “What about
imports?”

‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is no need for me to talk down to you. Politics are a matter of common sense – and common sense is that sphere in which ordinary men and women excel. Apply that criterion to this question of exports; cut through the meaningless tangle of Party verbiage with a clean, bright sword. And what do you find? You find that exports mean imports and imports mean exports. If we wish to import, we must export. If we wish to export, we must import. And the same applies to every other people, of whatever race or creed. The matter is as simple as that.

'“Simple,” did I say? Yes, but vitally important, too, as our friend so rightly suggests. All of us want to see England prosperous; all of us want to build for our children and our children's children a future free from the hideous threat of war. And I'm sure you won't consider it a selfish aspiration if I say that all of us would like to see a few years of that future ourselves. And why not? It's a great ideal we're fighting for, but it isn't an impossible ideal. . . .

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the world is at the cross-roads: we can go triumphantly forward – or we can relapse into barbarism and fear. And it is for you – everyone of you – to choose which way we shall go.

‘Well, sir, I think perhaps that answers your question. There may be some points I've missed, as the monkey said when he fell over the hedgehog. . . .'

Captain Watkyn was professionally impressed.

‘You're a natural, old boy,' he said soberly. ‘Can you keep that sort of thing up?'

‘Indefinitely,' Fen assured him. ‘The command of
cliché
comes of having had a literary training.'

‘Then we're in the money,' said Captain Watkyn. ‘Here, we must have another drink on that.'

They had another drink, and Captain Watkyn, sighing contentedly, said:

‘Well, I don't mind telling you
now
, Professor Fen, that Lwas a bit nervous at first about how you were going to turn out. I've had some queer customers to handle in my time, and sometimes it's been touch-and-go whether they could put a complete sentence together impromptu. Thank God we don't have to worry about
that
.

‘Now let's map out a plan of campaign. My idea, in addition to the regulation meetings, is to make a separate appeal to each section of the community.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well, I've been over the ground pretty thoroughly,' said Captain Watkyn, ‘and I think I've got a fair notion of what we're up against. This is an easy constituency in a way, because it's completely apathetic: half the people won't vote at all, for anyone. And a good proportion of that half are the women. These country women tend to think the whole thing's a lot of idiotic humbug suited only to men, and I won't say,' Captain Watkyn added handsomely, ‘that I think they're far wrong. . . . Anyway, we don't have to appeal to the women so much as we should elsewhere, so you can tone down the brave-resourceful-queueing-housewife-and mother angle.'

‘And that leaves what?'

‘It leaves the farmers and farm-labourers, chiefly. Do you know anything about farming?'

‘Nothing whatever.'

‘It's just as well, perhaps. Your best line with them will be to attack the Ministry of Agriculture, which they all detest. I'll try and collect some actual local cases of meddling for you to use, but you can always get on in the meanwhile with the usual man-on-the-spot-knows-a-sight-more-about-the-job-than-a-pack-of-Civil-Servants-in-Whitehall angle.'

‘I can manage that all right,' said Fen. ‘Who else is there?'

‘There's the Sanford Morvel crowd, mostly shopkeepers. The small-trader-is-the-backbone-of-national-prosperity will do for them, only you'll have to remember that agriculture's the backbone of national prosperity, too.'

‘And everything else.'

‘Everything else that goes on
in this constituency
,' Captain Watkyn amended. ‘Then there's Peek. Peek's not going to be too easy. Peek, between ourselves, is one of the most ruddy awful places I've ever come across in my life. The only thing I can think of that's likely to appeal to Peek is a sort of general prospect of getting something for nothing.'

Fen felt whatever principles he had slipping finally and irretrievably into limbo before Captain Watkyn's determined and far-reaching doctrines of expediency.

‘Is that the lot?' he asked weakly.

‘There are still the professional people, upper middle class and so forth. Not many of them, but they tend to vote.'

‘And what tale do I spin them?'

Captain Watkyn seemed hurt.

‘Look here, old boy, don't you go getting any wrong ideas about me. I know as well as you do what a grand thing democracy is. But the way I look at it is this. You're obviously the sort of clever, high-minded chap who ought to be in Parliament. Very well, then. But how are you going to get there? Answer: you've got to be elected.

‘Now, these Sanford people don't know you as well as I do,' Captain Watkyn pursued, with a confidence which their quarter-hour acquaintance did not seem to Fen entirely to justify, ‘and since they're mostly chronic imbeciles they're quite likely to elect some scoundrelly nitwit who'll help send the country to the dogs. Therefore, they've got to be jollied along a bit – for their own good, d'you see?'

‘As Plato remarked.'

‘As whatsit remarked, yes. Once you're elected,
then
your principles and so forth come into play. See what I mean?'

Fen, on the point of drawing attention to the well-known fact that means determine ends, came abruptly to the conclusion that the moment was inopportune and subsided again.

‘Yes, I see what you mean,' he said reservedly.

‘Then we're all set,' said Captain Watkyn. ‘Now, today's Saturday. My idea is to concentrate all your meetings as close to Polling Day as possible. This afternoon, of course, there's the nomination business in Sanford Morvel. Then tomorrow evening I've arranged for you to hold a kick-off meeting there after church hours. On Monday morning you're going hunting – –'

‘I'm
what?
'

‘Hunting, old boy. Cubbing, actually. There's a very keen hunt in these parts. Get you a lot of votes if you turn up.'

‘But I've never hunted in my life,' said Fen. His knowledge of the subject was derived almost exclusively from Surtees and the
Irish Resident Magistrate
.

‘That's all right,' said Captain Watkyn easily. ‘You can ride, can't you?'

‘In a way.'

‘Then don't worry, old boy. I'll be there to give you moral support. And I can easily get the loan of a couple of quiet nags.'

‘No,' said Fen.

‘If you went,' Captain Watkyn urged, ‘it'd give you a lot of pull with a certain sort of people, because neither of the other candidates will be there. The Conservative man can't ride, and the Labour man daren't, for fear of offending
The New Statesman
. . . . Just think it over.'

‘No.'

Unlike Oxford, Captain Watkyn had no time to waste on lost causes. ‘All right, then,' he said regretfully, ‘we'll cut that out. . . . Now, let's see. Most of the rest of the week you'll have to spend touring about to God-awful places like Peek, and talking at street corners. But, of course, we'll hold a slap-up final meeting on the evening before Polling Day.'

‘That sounds satisfactory,' Fen agreed. ‘And are there any people who are going to canvass for me?'

‘Well, not
yet
,' said Captain Watkyn. ‘There aren't actually any such people
yet
. Matter of fact, I tried to rope in the chaps who are nominating you, but they turned a bit nasty. Still, I shall find someone, never fear.'

‘And have I got a loudspeaker van?'

‘Well, yes. It doesn't work very well, because it's rather an old one, but there's an electrician johnny in Sanford Morvel trying to fix it up.'

‘And a car?'

‘I've seen to that, too,' said Captain Watkyn. ‘We'll pick it up after the nomination.'

‘And do we need a committee room? I dare say I could get a room here if necessary.'

‘Well, we haven't got a committee, have we, old boy? No, I think we'll dispense with that for the time being. No point in burdening ourselves with unnecessary expenses – the law only allows us a certain amount of money to play about with, you know. . . . Now, is there anything else, I wonder?'

‘What are the other candidates like?'

‘Oh, they're not much,' said Captain Watkyn with contempt. ‘The Conservative – chap called Strode – is a farm-labourer who's been to night classes. And Wither, the Labour man, is a big industrial magnate from somewhere up north. They've been chosen that way to try and make an appeal to the sort of people who aren't normally expected to vote for their Parties. Of course, it won't make the slightest difference in the end, but it gives Party H.Q. the illusion of being-up-to-the-minute.'

‘Do you think I've got a chance of getting in?' Fen asked.

‘Not a doubt of it, old boy,' said Captain Waytkn heartily. ‘Think success: talk success. That's my motto, and always will be.'

Fen eyed him rather coldly. ‘But apart from sales talk, I mean.'

Captain Watkyn's cheerfulness abated slightly.

‘Well, I don't know,' he said. ‘In the normal way, to be quite candid, I should say you hadn't got a chance in a million. But politics are funny. They're like racing. Hundred-to-one outsiders romp home and leave all the experts gaping. So you needn't despair,' said Captain Watkyn, resuming his more specious manner. ‘No need for despair at all. Now, I tell you what: we'll drive into Sanford Morvel for lunch, and then there'll be the nomination business, and after that you can come back here to' – he gestured vaguely – ‘to prepare your mind and so forth. . . . How about one for the road?'

CHAPTER 7

So they had one for the road and, after Captain Watkyn had ascertained that Fen was provided with the cheque for his deposit, left the inn. Captain Watkyn's car proved to be a rather old Bugatti sports model, and in it they set off for Sanford Morvel. The journey was without incident except when Captain Watkyn stopped beside a seedy-looking man who was shuffling along the road, gave him two pound notes, murmured: ‘Assyrian Lancer, Newmarket, 3.30,' and drove on again. ‘Damn silly names these horses have,' he observed to Fen.